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Published: October 7th 2007
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Ritual Combat
after two solid and dedicated days of drinking, the fighting begin! (photo courtesy of www.nytimes.com) Near Potosi in Boliva, there is a unique festival involving excessive drinking, ritual combat and extreme violence. Participants drink until paralytic, and then fight until blood runs on the streets. It is called "Tinku" and is a centuries old festivity which takes place once per year. I didn´t experience this firsthand, because it is not recommended for Gringos to visit towns when the Tinku is occuring. Read on and you will discover why! But I have heard a lot about it, and thought I should share it with you. It occurs over several days, and is a means of releasing tension, and settling neighbourhood disputes, conflicts and animosities. It starts with music, drinking and dancing, and the people drink grain alcohol and chicha (a fermented corn beer) until they almost lapse into unconsciousness. The excessive drinking and celebrating carries on into the second and third days, and then the ceremonial fighting begins. People start to fight each other, in a bizarre type of combat which is almost like a dance, with people hitting each other on the head with outstretched arms. This ritual combat can be bloody and violent, and sometimes people use weapons, or augment their fighting skills by throwing
The Hacienda
Steve arrives at our rural retreat in the hils rocks at their opponent. Sometime people are killed during the Tinku, but this is seen as a good thing! The death is an offering to Pachamama, the Earth Goddess, and guarantees a good harvest for the coming year. The violence is also thought to be a therapeutic channelling of any tension arising between communities, and serves to reduce conflicts during the year. Crazy stuff!
So we avoided Tinkus, and stayed in Potosi itself. At first we stayed in an ex-monastary called "The Companion of Jesus". To be honest, we should have known what to expect from an ex-Monastary - stark, miserable and cold. It was so cold in the mornings that the top of the jam at breakfast had almost frozen solid. Without meaning to be blasphemous, if Jesus had been staying here, they would have put the bloody heating on. So the next night we booked into a hacienda 25km from Potosi. Prior to this, the only hacienda I knew of was the warehouse club in Manchester. And I couldn't imagine House music and Indie music being belting out in rural Bolivia. A hacienda is actually a large estate, usually a ranch or plantation. We arrived and were
relaxing in style
This is me reclining and enjoying a glass of red in the opulence and luxury of a Bolivian stately home shown round by the maid/cook, who had a face like a wet weekend in Wales. She was civil enough, but devoid of smiles and friendliness. Theresa christened her "Happiness" on account of her complete inability to smile.We were the only guests at the hacienda. I could tell because all the rooms had keys dangling from their locks. The rooms were lovely, but mine did not have a towel. I checked another identical room and it did. I told Happiness that my room was lacking a towel, and that I would take one from the other room. But she was having none of it! She made me move rooms. Surely, it would be much, much easier to move a towel than to move me, my backpack, daypack and coat? Apparently not.
For dinner we moved to the main house. The three of us ate in style at a long dining table that could have sat twelve, surrounded by antique furniture and paintings. Happiness cooked and served a delicious three course meal, as we supped on fine wine and engaged in jolly banter. After the meal we retired to the lounge for more wine and a roaring log fire. I´m not
posh dining
Theresa and I at the banqueting table sure what the exact criteria is for "retiring" to the lounge rather than just going. Perhaps you can only retire after a posh meal?
The next day, the owner showed us around. He was an elderly gentleman who spoke reasonable English, but also had no respect for antiques (despite practically being one). He had an incredible library of 17th Century books. Not just a shelf full, but a significant libarary of several hundred texts. And these poor books were being mistreated. They deserved a better home than this (Battersea Books Home?). He showed us a huge tome from 1676, and flicked through the pages like it was The Beano. I swear I saw bits fall off. Not only does the excreted chemicals in sweat damage ancient paper, but so does exposure to oxygen and sunlight. These books should be in a low-humidity dark environment and handled with tweezers and gloves. The final straw was when he rammed the book back into it´s narrow space, bending and creasing half the pages in the process! No respect. He then showed us a wooden chest which was over 400 years old, and said "this chest was used to contain women´s clothes. HA!"
17th Century Library
the unfortunate library of mistreated books.... :-( On exclaiming "HA!", he kicked the chest really hard! Next he showed us a secret compartment in a small chest of drawers, and nearly broke it in the process. This guy was in possession of a piece of history, the Bolivian equivalent of a Stately Home! He was proud of it, but had no idea how to treat it. Can we report this to the NSPCA? (National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Antiques)
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